By now we also had our own particular phrasebook: "Joke" for example, joke. "But Papa, didn't take it seriously... it's a joke!" I said bursting into laughter, seeing him almost offended by a joke of mine. "When I want to make fun of you, should I tell you first?"
He straightened up in his chair, folded his hands on the table, the corner of his mouth quivered, then: "Sorry, Daughter, I am stupid" and he too burst out laughing. And since then "joke" and "it's not a joke" would become part of our phraseology.
Once, in the momentum of an embrace, my lips had rested on his. "Oh sorry! It was a mistake" I exclaimed embarrassed. "A pleasant mistake" he smiled as he swayed on his legs. "Maybe you should be wrong more often." And ever since, to emphasize a particularly warm greeting, he occasionally ended his letters with the word "mistake."
Yes, I missed my dear old Papa. I was happy that he would soon be returning to Venice.
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